


Masters

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood and Gore, Dean in Hell, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hell, Het, Hurt Dean Winchester, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:12:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They knew her by Meg, but in Hell, she was called a different name. Dean just didn’t realize it at the time. Castiel, though, always knew. This is the tale of the fall of a demon with a cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. The Evil That Men Do

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the spn-hardcore-bb on LJ. My wonderful artist was agirlnamedtruth, so any art you see was by her. Check out her main artpost and fanmix post [HERE](http://truthgraphix.livejournal.com/136937.html).
> 
> The italics are supposed to be Season 7 'Nurse' Meg chatting to coma!Cas. Dean's right—she does enjoy the sound of her own voice…The story itself spans throughout the earlier seasons. Most of the "hardcore" warnings are for this first chapter.

__

 

_"It's a hell of a thing, isn't it? Me and you, here. Alone. Kinda like the beginning of a joke: a demon and an angel walk into a crazy ward. But our audience is long gone, so we're stuck with a laugh track. Guess we can drop the act then._

_"…I was never an actress, back when I was alive, but you know that already, don't you? Still, ya gotta admit, I can put on a damn good show these days. Just ask Sammy boy and Dean-o. They bought front row seats once upon a time. And, well, I can tell you the entire staff is in_ awe _of Nurse Masters' devotion to her patient…When it comes down to it, though, I don't enjoy the work put into acting—the_ effort _behind the lies—as much as a demon probably should…Not anymore. What I do enjoy is the play itself, the entertainment value._

_"So, how about this? We'll pretend like this is the beginning of a play. We've probably got time for that, don't we? Why, it's not like you're going anywhere._

_"So, Act 1. This is the part where I tell you what you need to know to understand the story. Of course, beginnings don't always start at the beginning, do they, Clarence? You should know, you've probably been there for all the beginnings, every first that ever was…_

_"I'm going to take your silence as an agreement."_

* * *

_2011_

* * *

On the rack again:

The scream reminded her of home. It was only afterward that she recognized it was her own. She nearly smiled. _Nearly_. Would have if her fellow demon, a no-named _hack_ —fucking _hilarious_ , wasn't she?—in a meatsuit that used to belong to a hunter, hadn't twisted the blade right then. Christian. His body's name was Christian—couldn't make this shit up if she wanted to… _Angels and monsters and Winchesters, oh my!_ This little trip down the rabbit hole was getting funnier and funnier by the second.

Except for in the ways that it wasn't.

A touch of madness was always preferable to accepting the reality of torture. Or, at least, that had always been her philosophy. Had always made her time down under a bit easier, laughing like she loved it all.

Being on the rack again, while top-side, was not on her agenda, but it wasn't entirely a surprise. She was told, every time she got off of it, that she'd always be back for more. The only difference between here and home was the straps holding her down. Specifically the symbols etched into the leather over her breasts, her lady bits, her neck—they were meant to make sure she stayed in a body.

Not that they were really necessary. Christian, the dumbass, hadn't bothered to take off her necklace when he'd stripped off her clothes. Woulda been funny to see him try.

The nudity itself, the position of his knife at the V of her legs, it didn't have a thing to do with the appeal of her form. It had to do with humiliation. It had to do with reminding her of home.

Full circle: she cried out again and then rolled her eyes, annoyed by the sound. Breathless, she gave the world a crooked grin. "You know, you're sticking that thing in all the wrong places."

Christian rose up into view, surprisingly clean, which meant he was either an amateur or an expert. Meg voted amateur—she'd been trained by the best and this pathetic bag of smoke was having too much fun to get any proper work done.

"Really?" he asked, all cocky. "You sure were squealing."

"Knock yourself out. It's a host's body." A bluff. She knew as much, but he didn't. Most demons weren't quite so attached to their meat, but Meg…Meg had put up with a lot of shit to keep this one. "Some girl from Sheboygan. Moved to L.A. to be an actress—this is probably not even the worst thing that ever happened to her."

Meg knew for sure it wasn't, actually. But details, who needed them?

Christian laughed, seeing through the comments in a rare display of intelligence, and then bent back down out of her line of sight, putting the knife back to work. The girl she was in…the girl's body would be ruined, more than it already was, but the pain forced that odd strain of thought straight out of Meg's head.

Wet sounds, the kind that should never be made because of a knife, greeted her, bringing a grimace to her face. An unacceptable sign of weakness. Madness, she reminded herself, was a friend, so she forced a laugh, letting her head raise slightly, her eyes drift down to see what kind of damage the blade had done. She was greeted by a happy surprise.

No man, whether demon or human, liked hearing chuckles instead of moans when working a girl's downstairs. Christian shot up, frowning at her.

"What are you laughing at?"

The best joke ever played on her, apparently, because, there, right behind the torture rack, stood Dean. The hunter slipped closer, and in a too-quick move, grabbed the knife right out of the demon's hand, shoving it through Christian's chest. The demon stared, confused—for their kind, death was never expected.

She smirked. "Dean Winchester's behind you, meatsack."

Dean's jaw set hard, and his nostril's flared. The expression was one she recognized as grim satisfaction. He twisted the blade and then pulled it back out. The movement was familiar—how many times, she wondered, how many times had she seen Dean pull a blade out of a body?

As the demon's host fell forward, abandoned, the hunter stared down at her, his gaze avoiding her wounds. Perhaps because she was in a woman's form. Perhaps because they brought back too many memories for him. Meg wanted to comment on the fact that he hadn't killed her yet, that he'd rescued her instead. But she held her tongue, mainly because of the look in his eyes.

Just for a moment, she thought he knew. That he'd put the pieces together. That he'd remembered.

"We need to move." The impatient voice, Soulless Sam's, came from behind, where the other hunter watched through the entryway as lookout.

Dean gave him a glance before turning back and glaring at Meg with something akin to disgust, no doubt kindled by the thought of letting her go. His hands moved across the buckles holding her down, so familiar with their workings. When they locked eyes again, Meg smiled back, willing him to remember.

Dean swallowed hard.

_You know me,_ she thought. _You know my name_.

But he didn't speak it, not even once. Perhaps he never would. But that didn't change things. It didn't make what she'd seen him do in Hell any less real. It didn't change the fact that she was at his side the entire time.

* * *

_"…A girl doesn't really know a person until she's known them in Hell. See, Dean and I got close in my third tour. This trip downstairs wasn't planned, at least not by me, and, unfortunately, I couldn't blame it on a couple hunters bumbling through an exorcism. This fall was, much like my first, all about betrayal…_

_"Ever wondered when that smarmy dick started rubbing me the wrong way?"_

* * *

_2007_

* * *

The lifeless body on the floor twitched, its bones crackling as it rolled its muscles, the entity inside filling in all the empty spaces. After a moment, it pulled itself up off the shadowed floor, eyes wet and glittering and pitch black in the faint light of the parlor room. The corpse's mouth opened, words spilling out.

"You've got brass balls, calling me here, Crowley. My father won't be happy."

The other demon stood from his lounge on the sofa, a smirk on his face as he glanced her over his shoulder. He knew a bluff when he heard one, unfortunately. "Now is that any way to greet a friend? You pull yourself out of Hell and don't even bother to visit afterward? Could hurt a man's feelings."

Meg rolled her eyes, annoyed, but managed to keep her mouth shut. The room was silent a moment, too quiet for her comfort. It never sat well when lower demons refused to gloat, and she could feel the presence of at least two of them nearby. With a questioning tilt of her head, the lackeys at the door stepped out, giving their master and his guest their privacy. Meg didn't take that as a particularly good sign either. She straightened, putting on her best poker face.

"I didn't know you cared," she finally replied. Impatience wasn't hard to feign.

"Darling, how have you been? The way I hear it, your daddy's a bit _peeved_ with your little trip to see the Winchesters. Seems you went off script," Crowley said, pouring himself a glass of Craig. His eyes flitted in that smiling way, even though his lips were drawn tight. Meg recognized the expression; pissed, but happy to have a chance to act on the aggression. She mimicked it.

"Then I should be talking to him. Not you."

He raised a brow. "And you think he still has time for your antics? You swept all your pieces off the game board in a temper tantrum. Tried to make a statement and got sloppy. Which is not at all like you—"

"As much as I just _love_ water cooler talk," Meg interrupted, staring at his back as he replaced the bottle. Her rage had not disappeared in the least since her last 'temper tantrum', and she had places to be, Winchesters to mindfuck. If there hadn't been a circle beneath her feet, holding her in place, she'd already be back on course. After all, promises were promises, and she'd told a certain hunter he'd regret his choices…"I've got orders to carry out."

His laughter made her stiffen. She was used to be being lorded over, but Crowley was young, at least amongst her kind. The bastard had stepped on a lot of toes to move up the line so quickly, but Meg refused to see him as a higher-up, even if he ruled the soul purchases now, even if he was, supposedly, Lilith's right-hand man. Even if Meg hadn't come here of her own free will. She was still Azazel's. That should have meant something. It _did_ mean something. Which was why she was concerned when another demon was cocky enough to pull her off task for a chat.

The summoning had taken her by surprise, more so when she found herself shoved into a cold corpse she hadn't chosen and staring out through new eyes at the finely tailored suit of the King of the Crossroads.

She'd had her fair share of run-ins with the demon, back before he was wearing his new meat, and the bastard hadn't quite let go of those centuries she'd spent torturing him, but, still, he'd never dared pull a move like this one…Meg had friends in low places; one didn't screw around with Hell's favorite children.

He swept the liquor off his bottom lip with a flick of his tongue, then turned fully, standing posed as if he were pondering the wonders of the universe. "Oh, it's no business of mine what you do. For all I care, you could march around wearing a hunter any time you like—bet you're rather fetching in one of the big lugs…But your boss and my boss have had a meeting of minds, you see, and I've been called in to do their dirty work. It's nothing personal, of course."

His boss. Then it was true. Meg shifted her weight. "Lilith is in Hell."

Crowley raised a brow. "Until Azazel finishes his job of fully freeing her…yes," his casual tone heightening to a hiss, "and you've still managed to _piss her off."_

Meg could hear them, the heavy, low breaths of the beasts coming up behind her. The closest hellhound snarled, growling into her ear. This time, there would be no fleeing. Crowley had made sure of it.

"You're going back," he announced, sitting down his glass. "Your father's orders. You know how the tyrant likes to utilize his victim's fears, so this really shouldn't come as a surprise to you, should it?"

She narrowed her gaze on him, disgusted. "You don't even know, do you? Busy doing Azazel's bidding, and you don't even know what the plan really is, what my father's got in store…You're a worker bee, Crowley. You'll be sacrificed, too, before this is over."

Crowley's eyes glimmered darkly. "Oh, darling, I know more than you think. I'd wager that both our bosses like to keep their cards close to their chests. Only, mine? She's not sending me to be 're-educated' for trying to get a looksey."

He stepped as close to the barrier as he could manage. The slight frown at his lips was a mockery of pity. "It's sad really, the _real_ reason you went on your adorable little vendetta. It had nothing to do with helping or hurting the grand plan. Nothing to do with loyalty or treachery…You're not your daddy's favorite anymore. He's looking for your upgrade now, giving all his attention to the new batch of _special_ children. And you're jealous. How human of you." Crowley leaned in, hand raised to block a stage whisper. "If I were you, I wouldn't let anyone downstairs hear about that—you know how your old mentor loves to exploit one's weaknesses."

"Fuck you, Crowley."

He smiled, almost kindly. "Enjoy your sabbatical—what was it they're calling you these days? _Meg?_ —enjoy your sabbatical, _Meg_. See you in a few centuries…"

The hellhounds tore into her from behind, throwing her host body to the ground as they dug their claws into her stomach and ripped free her soul. It was almost as fun as an exorcism.

* * *

_"… Hell was exactly as I'd left it. Which is part of the whole 'being Hell' thing. It never changes. Top-side? Societies are built, disasters strike, societies are built again. But Hell is Hell, always and forever. Or, at least it was in my day._

_"There was one tiny consolation prize for my return trip, though. John Winchester was still there. I just couldn't wait for my turn to gloat to that pesky cockroach, tell him what I did to his boys. How I stained Sammy's hands. How Dean wasn't going to follow through on his orders. And sure, I might have wanted to embellish it a bit, since technically, he'd won the wager I'd made before escaping…_

_"Demons, we lie, you know? Just like you angels._

_"Unfortunately, I was shit out of luck if I thought I'd have any say in the matter…"_

* * *

On the rack again:

The screams were a constant chorus, her whispered words almost lost to them.

" _The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me…The renegade who had it made, retrieved for a bounty_ …" The song lyrics bubbled up with a fresh spew of black blood over her chin, and she smiled, choking on the laugh and the strip of stomach lining working its way up her esophagus.

Alastair twisted the blade just right, spilling stomach acid down over her groin. Meg convulsed against the sensation, tugging at the hooks holding her arms in place.

"I like that one," Alastair commented, in that slow, lazy speech with which she was so familiar. "You always had the loveliest singing voice, Jehanne." The blade lifted up and out with a wet rip. "Though, I _must_ confess, I _do_ prefer to hear you screaming."

"You always know—" Meg gurgled, feeling her vocal chords give at the strain. "—how to make a girl—" Her eyes rolled back in her head when the knife slipped back inside her body, but she brought them forward again, focusing. "—feel special."

She cried out as the forked metal tip scrambled her intestines. Long, thick chunks of purple organs hit the rock at Alastair's feet with a plop. Meg trembled, riding out the agony, and the torturer patted her hip, content with her efforts.

"Well, you were a favorite pupil of mine. Never carved anything so _pure_ before I cut into you…And you've come _such_ a long way since then." Alastair sighed, reminiscing. "I only wish I had more time to spare for you, dear, but, alas, I've been asked to put my efforts elsewhere."

He ran his hand down between her bare breasts, drawing a shape in her blood, and she could feel the wound beneath close. The pain remained at every curving twist of metal and bone hooks holding her in place, but she could speak again. The small reprieve was part of the process—Alastair had always taught her to start on a fresh canvas. It was the reason here, in this place, where no forms were necessary, every victim appeared to be in bodies of flesh and blood. As they were in life.

Black smoke and twisted mounds of decayed flesh simply didn't feel pain the same way as a victim staring down at his own mangled body. It was visceral and realistic, and it was part of the artistry. Meg remembered her lessons in it well. After all, she hadn't been gone long, not this time around, and she'd always taken her apprenticeship seriously.

She was almost back to feeling at home in her own, freshly-skinned flesh. The body, the one she'd died in, was only slightly younger than the hosts she'd chosen top-side. The breasts high and small, not fallen with age, the stomach bloated slightly with hunger, hips full and past ready for childbirth, arms hard with the muscle of a country worker, dark hair cut shorter than her gender was allowed, the face…Meg couldn't quiet remember her own face, truthfully.

But the name remained: Jehanne, as Alastair enjoyed reminding her. Meg thought that maybe she'd snatched up Meg Masters because of a desire to own that face, pretend it had always been her own. She'd chopped off her hair, hardened her features with paint, trying to recreate a form she couldn't quite recall ever having...It had been a failure in all but the name; that part had somehow stuck, but not here in Hell.

"Let me have John Winchester. I can break him." She wasn't beyond begging, and Alastair enjoyed it far too much to not hesitate, but he shook his head in response.

"He's a _special_ case. Requires my _special_ attendance. Last time I let you have a stab, you dug around, played with all his secrets, and then ran away...What did you do while you were free, dear? I really _would_ like to know the full story."

_Special_ —Meg didn't answer him, consumed by his choice of wording. The children were special. Sam Winchester was special. John Winchester was special. _She_ was special. Fuck their _'special_ '—Meg was growing sick of it. She growled in frustration, pulling at the chains leading out into the ether. "In the past, you would have let me have him," she snapped.

Alastair shrugged one shoulder, humor in the gesture. "Orders are orders. If you'd obeyed yours, you wouldn't be in this mess, now would you?" He leaned forward, grinning. "But if you're a good girl, I'll let you watch."

_If you're a good girl…_ That had been one of Alastair's favorite games with her. The trick was, good girls didn't go to Hell. Which meant she'd never get to win.

Alastair's pale face distorted, growing horns out of his head and out of the ridges of his cheeks, his chin lengthening to a sharp point. A mask, custom designed for his next 'patient'. "I'll give John your regards," the torturer promised.

She barely felt the chains yanking her away from his rack, back into the pit of flesh and bone.

* * *

_"…You know that phrase, 'as boring as Hell'? Actually, never mind, you probably don't…"_

* * *

Time in Hell oozed by, a decade wrapped in a month, over a century in a year. Day and night were one, weeks distorted by agony, and calendars without place, but it was easy to keep up with time because it was another one of Alastair's methods. If ever you forgot how long it had been, he'd remind you. Not out of mercy, because the passing of time was only a mercy if there was an end in sight.

Time left Meg stuck in her own head. Old tricks—naming the screamers, counting cuts, guessing which tool would be used next—didn't work as well as they used to, back before she'd gotten her freshest taste of the land of the living. Before she'd had a chance to wear Sam, to _be_ Sam Winchester.

Playing that part had been interesting. She'd expected to grow bored—patience was a virtue, which meant it wasn't looked kindly upon. But, she'd never been a man before, or worn one. In life, she'd wondered what it would be like. Granted, the roles of men and women were very different back then, but still, her curiosity remained. What had surprised her most, though, had nothing to do with the week she'd spent playing with Sam's body and planning out the best means for forcing Azazel's new favorite candidate's sweet family to implode on itself. No, what had surprised her was how much she enjoyed pulling Dean into the mix.

Watching him struggle, watching him standing his ground—it was frustrating at first. She'd been so aimed to prove herself right, show that Sammy wasn't worth the trouble. It would have set things back on course for her: Sam would be dead, and Dean, having killed his little brother, would be a broken man. Which would be exactly what the asshole deserved for sending her back to Hell.

It _should_ have worked.

But then Dean hadn't done his part. That hadn't been what John said…No, when she'd tortured the old-boy, he'd swore his eldest would always make the right choice. And, Meg could see it in his eyes, Dean was a killer. Like her. A soldier. Like her. He took orders.

And like her, he'd gone against orders for once, choosing Sammy over his duty. Like her.

Meg didn't want to think about that anymore.

"I do so look forward to meeting him."

Alastair's words pulled her from her own thoughts. Her mentor had been quiet of recent, after losing John Winchester's soul, after losing more demons that he would have preferred in the breakout. After Azazel's death.

Death. The final one. Meg couldn't comprehend it, couldn't understand why it mattered to be finished. Azazel—her once-Father—was dead, and Hell was chaotic without his stiff rule.

Her torturer ran the razor over the tips of her fingers, shaving off the skin. It curled like tiny strips of parchment. She grinded her teeth, what were left of them after a day's work. Another demon, a man in a mask made of stringy, blood-soaked chunks of human hair, stood at her back, his erection pressing against her—the new ones were always so obvious. She didn't understand his appearance until he yanked at her short-shod hair so that he could see the edge of her scalp. The glitter of a cleaver caught the light off the flames below.

_Ah_. The mask made more sense. Silly her.

Alastair's words finally circled back to her.

"Who?"

He paused in his movements. "Why, the hunter you were talking about, dear Jehanne. John Winchester's eldest."

Hell's racks weren't a good place for keeping secrets. They spilled out like bile. Meg couldn't remember saying the names floating across her mind.

"Dean," she supplied. She jerked against hair-boy's pull before raising a brow at Alastair. "Why didn't you escape with the others? When the gate opened? I couldn't—for obvious reasons—but you could have left this place if you were so apt to nab another hunter."

Alastair chuckled. "I enjoy my job too much. You know that—I _despise_ when the higher-ups sent me top-side. Tender-bodied humans are more entertaining, but they expire _far_ too fast for my liking."

"Then when do you plan to meet Dean?"

The demon waved a hand, stopping his assistant before the cleaver's blade could fall. He leaned in, his smile so wide it nearly broke his face. "Then you don't know? Why do you think we allowed John Winchester's escape? The bastard was too stubborn, and we've already got his son's soul on contract."

Meg's blinked. Her father was dead, but his plan…His plan hadn't been stopped entirely. "How long?"

"A year. Top-side time, of course. Then he's all ours." There was a hard glint in Alastair's eyes, despite his delight. The failure to break John Winchester hadn't gone unnoticed with the other demons. He would have to make up for it. "How would you like to come off the rack when he gets here?"

Only about a hundred Hell-years left to wait. It wasn't so long, really. "The contract…He made it to save his brother, didn't he?"

Alastair raised a brow. "How did you know?"

Because she'd told Dean he'd regret it, letting Sam live. She laughed. "Sam's the only reason he'd ever break his own rules."

Alastair nodded, approvingly. Or to give the scalper permission. Meg couldn't be sure which.

"Like father, like son," he said, softly. "Rather pathetic, aren't they?"

* * *

Alastair's methods were famous for a reason: they worked. Most of the time. On the rare occasion that they didn't, everyone in his corner of Hell suffered for it.

If Meg could have felt sorry for the hunter, she would have. For a hundred years, the torture master had been biding his time, considering the flaws in his approach with John Winchester. Meg had been the one to point out the obvious, that the righteous were made of different stuff than the pigs they usually received—"Don't beat yourself up, Al. He wasn't your usual fair."

The words sparked something behind his eyes. Something dangerous. Meg grinned back at him, letting him rip her apart, letting him remember all the things he'd done when she'd first arrived in Hell, because if anyone could relate to the Winchesters' do-gooder sensibilities, Meg knew it was her—the old her, the dead her, the girl who came before the demon.

"Soon," Alastair promised her, tugging the muscle from her bones, "our boy will be here soon."

It was like Christmas day when the hooks dug into the soul of Dean Winchester.

* * *

"… _Pain felt in Hell is different from pain felt on Earth, for humans at least. It's not less; it's not more. But, it's easier to keep a grip on yourself if you can tell the difference between the two. Of course, it wasn't very helpful if your torturer knew that, too…See, Clarence, the best way to cause a person the most pain in Hell is to make them relieve the pain they already felt on Earth._

_"But, hey, why am I telling you this? I'm sure you're figuring that out already in that broken noggin' of yours_ …"

* * *

Again with the patience. Meg wasn't a big fan, but she enjoyed watching the moment unfold, even if it was one she'd seen before.

Crimson light, the hue of sunlight through stained glass, flickered over the two men, holding the shadows at bay and setting the scene for a new round.

Sam Winchester's face was so sweet, his eyes so pleading, his messy hair just boyish enough to charm, that Meg found it hard to not reach out and pet him. That or rip off his meat and wear him for Halloween. She was unsure as to what the urge she felt actually called for, though. Instead of acting on it, she simply watched from the darkness surrounding the pair, hidden from view as the young hunter approached his bound and bleeding brother and hunched down to cup his cheek tenderly.

Dean's chains had been lowered, leaving him on his knees, hands pinned in front of him by a metal rod through his wrists, neck encircled by the chain holding him upright. His head lolled, as if it might fall off his shoulders, and his dazed eyes watched his brother without betraying a single emotion. As if he didn't spend every moment of his first month in Hell screaming this man's name until his throat was bloody. As if he didn't know what came next.

"Why can't you let me go, Dean?" Sam said, his voice broken with grief. His thumb ran down a cut across his brother's cheek, tracing it gently. "Why can't you just let me go for once?"

"Can't, Sammy."

The words were so quiet that they were nearly lost, but Meg heard them, and they excited her. He was playing today. Some days he wouldn't.

Sam shook his head, gaze drowning in pity. "I died, Dean, just like Dad…I died to get away from you, and you still won't let me stay gone."

If the words still hurt, Dean didn't show it, his gaze roaming Sam's face, re-memorizing the details. "Not…" His voice caught in his throat as he struggled to fall forward, the metal links digging into his throat. "Not real."

Sam smiled, an almost chiding expression, and slowly stood back up. "But I am, Dean. I'm real…I came here to thank you. _Thank you_ , Dean. Thank you for going to Hell. Thank you for giving me some peace for once." He cocked his head, his grin widening into something cruel. "If you hadn't, I'd be stuck in Heaven. I'd never have a chance to grow, to become who I'm meant to be." One slow blink later, and his eyelids opened to reveal murky yellow orbs. "Thank you, Dean—thank you for leaving."

" _No_." Dean smothered the word with a grimace. "No!"

Meg felt something stir in her at the image, but she held it down, ignoring those yellow eyes—ones she'd never see again—in favor of focusing on Dean's reaction. It worked, every time, breaking the hard expression on his face, chipping away at his insides better than a pickaxe, because Dean knew: it wasn't real, but it was _true_.

Sam stepped back, his face dissolving into smoke and reforming until it was Alastair standing over the hunter. Meg stepped out to join him. As fun as this play was, she knew it wouldn't break Dean any time soon.

Seeing Sam…evil, tortured, taunting—it didn't matter. Each vision seemed to strength the hunter instead of hurting him. Which Meg was fine with—the stronger he was, the more fun it would be to play with him. Alastair, however, was not as amused. He had a job to do, after all.

"Dean," Alastair sighed. "Dean, Dean, _Dean_ —what are we going to do with you? If you won't say your lines, we'll have to go back to another technique. It's like you're not even _trying_ these days." He shrugged, disappointment clear on his face—another part of his game. "And here I thought you'd appreciate what I'm doing for you. It is, after all, our anniversary." Alastair raised a hand and the stake pinning down Dean's hands flew free from the rock beneath with a wet pop, letting the chain around his neck jerk him back upon to his feet. "Six years, Dean. Six years together, you and I."

Dean clung to the metal at his neck, his hands too slippery with blood to give him any strength, but he managed to suck in a breath of air. "Did you buy me flowers?" he asked, choking against his own shit-eating grin. "Or jewelry?"

Meg startled at Alastair's heavy touch as he patted her bare shoulder. It was all the permission she needed to take her turn with him. The master torturer stepped aside, into the shadows, to either watch his apprentice work or attend to another soul.

Meg enjoyed the dark room, its single beam of red light casting Dean in her favorite shade. The pit was usually preferred for most souls, where they could hang, humiliated, amongst so many others watching their pain. But, Dean…Dean needed attention. Dean needed _isolation_. He could be weaker without the audience.

From the darkness came a baying of hounds. The sound sent a tremor down his body. Meg took that as her cue, and waved her hand. Thin, biting chains shot out of the darkness, snatching his wounded wrists and ankles, pulling his arms out wide, and spreading his legs until only the tips of his toes grazed the pile of bones beneath him.

He grimaced, face swollen as he tried to suck in a breath. "Bitch."

She raised a brow, expectantly, but she'd given up on him recognizing her years ago, despite how much he fell back on his favorite nickname. She'd considered, on more than one occasion, telling him who she was—his 'Meg'. The one who had his daddy snatched. The one who killed so many of his little hunter buddies. The one who'd possessed his baby brother. It would have been fun, rubbing _salt_ in that wound—but she'd told herself she'd hold out a bit longer. Her plan for him wouldn't work if he knew who she was quite yet. Afterward. After he broke, she'd tell him and watch him wither. It would make her century. It would make the memory of all those nasty things she did to him so much sweeter.

"I've missed our alone time, too," she noted, her voice soft, girlish.

The hellhounds were closer now, their growls coming from right behind him. Meg had made sure they'd be chained just out of distance, just close enough to swipe at him, but not close enough to tear him apart before they were finished.

Meg stepped closer, her bare breasts pressed against his chest, close enough for her to feel his body tense when the first hound's claw sliced into his shoulder blade. She leveled her hands over his hips, holding him still for the second hound to rip at the soft flesh of his ass. He growled, jaw clenched shut against the pain.

"I want to try something new with you," she said. "I don't think you quite understand what you are yet…What you're going to be...So I'm going to show you."

Meg leaned forward, pressing his bowed forehead against her own, her voice soft as a whisper. "You're not going to be just any soul, Dean. You're not meant to hang on a rack—you're meant to be the one hanging souls on the rack. You're going to be like us. You're going to be—"

"No," he hissed.

"You're going to be a _demon_ ," she finished, flashing her eyes to black. "See, I've been watching you, all these years, and I know what you're hiding. I know how much you like the pain. It gives you power. Control. It makes you feel _alive_. A real feat considering how very dead you are."

"Jehanne—"

His plea broke off when her hand reached down between them, fingers grasping his cock in a vice. He didn't try to speak again, his breathing labored, eyes open and staring down his body. She squeezed a bit, just enough to make him wince, before jacking him once, again, again. His body rocked as a hound managed to rip into his back again, but she felt the tremor run through his shaft, too, and grinned.

"That's my boy," she whispered. "Surrender to it, Dean."

" _Don't,_ " he gritted. But her reply was to quicken her speed, and he whimpered, anticipating her next move.

She didn't blame him for shivering against her tough—how many times had she held his manhood against her palm, only to dig in her nails, only to pull a vine of thorns out of his belly and wrap them around his balls. Meg felt a wave of pleasure at the memory, but she resisted the urge repeat that particular performance.

When she said she'd wanted to try something new, she hadn't been lying. She and Alastair had big plans for Dean, and corruption was a subject she knew intimately.

Meg slid down to her knees, holding to his spread legs as the hound snapped at his flesh, trying to put its claws into him again. She ran her free hand beneath him, her ring finger following the trail of flesh up to the tight circle of muscle at his hole. It was slick from the cuts across his back, dripping down the cleft of his ass, and she traced it lazily.

His muscles tightened: fear or frustration, pain or pleasure. She opened her mouth, swallowing the head of his cock, and slowing the pace of the hand sliding up its length to give her tongue time to catch up. It wasn't real—flesh wasn't real in Hell. No, it was left behind in a dirt nap upstairs, but that didn't mean salty sweat wasn't rolling down his body or that she couldn't taste the tang of his pre-cum. No, reality was perception, just like pain.

She angled him down, so her eyes could roam up his form and see his wide, frightened gaze. He was expecting it, any minute now. Teeth that would grow long and bite him off. Or a razor blade kiss to split him in half.

She hummed against him, a song she knew he'd recognized, and suckled him until he came in hot bursts down her throat. It was the first time she'd ever let him come after six long years of playtime.

Meg stood straight again, reaching behind him to touch the shredded skin of his backside. She caressing the exposed muscle at the small of his back, bathing her fingers in the warmth pouring out. "Happy anniversary," she said, and gave him a wicked grin.

The shame on his face was fresh, like he'd just arrived, all over again.

* * *

_"…There's this line, it's kind of relevant, especially for demons. 'The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.'…I taught Dean that lesson myself. Figured the boy could use a bit of Shakespeare. Granted, I didn't realize he'd be getting his bones back any time soon. Sucks, really, because he was downright_ good _at being bad. Some might have said he was an artist…"_

* * *

So close. Always _so_ close.

What had it been now? Nearly thirty years? It was a drop in the bucket here, but Alastair was on edge, leaving his lessers to his other duties as he devoted himself entirely to his hunter. Meg wasn't sure what he had been told, but she knew a higher-up was whispering in his ear enough that he let Meg aid him in most of his sessions. It helped, being one of his favorite students, and Meg could only smirk in glee at the other demons who wanted a chance to dig into the hunter again.

No. She wouldn't allow it. He was their toy for at least another century, if she had her way, but she had a feeling he wouldn't last out that long.

So close.

He would break soon. She could feel it. One day, Alastair's offer would receive the right answer.

Her lips hovered over his, breathing into him. "I've gotta say, Dean. You might not have much going for you upstairs, but you sure do hurt pretty."

His long lashes flickered open, green eyes not finding her closeness a surprise. "Bet that's what you tell all the guys."

"Oh, my little dimwit—you're the only one, I promise." She grinned, then tugged the razor wire holding him to the stone altar tighter before she threw one leg over his naked body and crawled up to join him. She straddled his hips, rubbing her slick center against his shaft with a purr at her lips. " _Mmm_ , what's it going to take today, Dean? Want me to burn out your eyes while we play?"

A chuckle sounded from a few feet away, where Alastair stood at a second altar, arranging a table of his favorite tools. Blades caught light as he lifted one at a time, examining their gleaming edges before moving onto the next. Behind him, a mangled female corpse, still moaning in pain, remained from the 'little break' he'd just taken from his favorite.

"I must say, I am particularly fond of the sound eyes make when they _pop_ ," he noted, "but so long as you children are having fun…"

Meg ran her nails down Dean's beaten chest, avoiding the wires cutting across his nipples. They'd barely begun for the day, and he was mostly whole, but the gentle scrape was enough to keep his attention on her. "I think we should chat, first, before we begin, don't you?"

But she could already feel his erection pressing against, begging for attention, and it was all she could do to contain her smile. It had taken so long to get that reaction from him, to train him to associate pain with pleasure, but it had been worth the almost constant look of shame on his face. Soon, he wouldn't know the difference between one sensation and the other.

"Gonna talk…'bout the…weather?" the words barely made it out, but when they did, they were casual, another conversation for another day. "Another…scorcher."

Alastair laughed a bit louder, picking bits of flesh from the teeth of his saw blade. "Someone's in a mood today."

Meg grinned down. There was some form of normality in the exchange, something she'd come to…enjoy. "Same pitch, different day, kiddo," she said, with a short, mocking sigh, "but that comes last, as you know. No, I thought we'd talk about what you're going to do when you get off this rack—everyone appreciates a young man with a five-year-plan, after all."

"No—"

She pressed a hand over his lips to keep the word inside, refusing to accept the answer just yet. "I want you to think real hard, Dean, because I don't think it's ever quite sunk in, no matter how many times I've said it."

She raised herself up, sliding down onto his cock. He moaned, and she began to rock her body, riding him. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Alastair approaching, hands at his side, watching without even a hint of lust in his gaze. Always the professional. But he patted Dean's leg, nevertheless, encouraging them to continue.

Meg lost track of her mentor, her head spinning as she lifted up, impaling herself down onto him all over again. "Dean," she breathed, "this is Hell. You know who goes here…Bad souls. _Wicked_ souls...The ones you'll have on your rack, they won't be innocents. They won't be men like you, who sold themselves for their loved ones." She sped up, riding him hard, her voice coming out in hard, steady breaths. "You're a rare breed, Dean—you deserve better." The words caught in her throat, and she felt Alastair's eyes searching her—this wasn't on script. This message was new, one Meg had been holding back for so long. "You deserve to be the one putting them in their place, Dean. You're a hunter—this is what you do."

He grunted, trying to form a no and losing the word.

She could almost feel the confusion in him, in her mentor as well. Alastair simply didn't understand his prey—her mentor knew pain, knew guilt, knew deception. But he didn't know _Dean._ He didn't know what it was to be a soldier, to be loyal to a master, not the task itself.

"Do your job, Dean," she hissed, moving faster against him. "That's all we're asking."

Without hesitation, she reached out, pulling a short blade from Alastair's hand, and leaned down. Dean's eyes widened a moment in surprise, his mouth open to speak, but she moved too quickly, sliding the edge along his throat. Hot blood sprayed across her face, and she felt his hips buck beneath her as he shot his load inside her.

Pain. Pleasure. _So close_. "Atta boy," she whispered, kissing the spill at his lips as he gurgled up his words on a tide of red. She abandoned the knife, pinching his jaw between her fingers to hold his deadened gaze. "They deserve what you're going to be doing to them, Dean. _All of them_ deserve to be on your rack. And the day you realize it's the right choice—that's the day, I'll put the hooks back in my skin. That day, I'll get on the rack again, just for you…"

Alastair stepped up again, and if he was surprised by the offer, it didn't show when he made his own, the same one he'd been making to the hunter every day for the past thirty years.

* * *

_"…I'd never felt pain like I did the day Dean Winchester came off the rack. Might not have book smarts, that boy, but he's got talent. I know Sammy's supposed to have the dark vein and all, but Dean knows his pain. Reminded me so much of Alastair, the way he used his blade to work me over. Too bad he never got a chance to advance up the foodchain. Coulda went far, that one. Could have taken me with him…"_


	2. II. The Truth Beneath the Rose

_"I swear I just saw you twitch, Clarence. Don't like to hear such naughty things about your boy Dean, do you? Or maybe it's more than that…Maybe you don't like hearing it from me. Dean and I, we're a lot more alike than I ever realized—both being good little tin soldiers with daddy issues and an appreciation for decent music—but back when I was alive, you could say I had a few more things in common with Sammy._

_"Azazel had big plans for me, too, then. I was his special child before he ever got the order to make more of us. I was…I was a good girl—I'd ask you not to laugh, but that's not a problem, now is it?_

_"After Hell, though? I was my father's soldier. I carried out my duty, embraced it. When Dean killed ol' Yellow Eyes, I lost my purpose and found a new one: finding inventive ways to help my old mentor rip our boy apart. Every. Single. Day._

_"So, you can imagine, I was a bit peeved when you came and took him away, sweetplum. But, you did more than that—I'd never seen an angel before you broke into my corner of Hell and stole my favorite toy. I'd never seen anything so beautiful, so mighty, so blinding._ _Blew my mind_.

_"But, don't worry. I found something new to occupy my days in Hell after you left me high and dry. See, my true father began to speak to me, his voice slipping out from between the broken locks of his cage. What's the saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…Well, suffice to say, I won't be feeling any shame any time soon, but you get the drift. Once again, I found purpose. Once again, I found a new master to serve._  
  
"And I would have done whatever he wished of me, even if that meant not getting to kill you all bloody…"

* * *

_2009_

* * *

The smoke crept along the ceiling of the room before funneling down into the corpse lying across the floor. The body shook as the demon filled it out, spilling into every inch, until, finally the girl's eyes opened once more.

Meg pulled herself up off the floor, rolling her neck to stretch out the kinks, and running her tongue over her lips, tasting the man who'd last been there. And, yes, peanut butter. The asshole had been right.

She'd thought that short encounter would be a final one, a finishing note. A tiny part of her had even hoped that the kiss would shock some sort of recognition out of him. That he'd look at her and know her name, her real name, right before his death.

Nothing. Not even a hint in his eyes.

It was enough to make her livid.

She'd hated him, the moment he'd left Hell behind, and she wasn't alone—what made that soul worthy of being rescued by an angel? What made Dean Winchester so much better than the woman she had been, back when she was just another fresh body on the rack? It wasn't fair, and she'd had centuries in the pit to stew over the idea, taking it out on whatever soul looked the most like the oldest of the brothers Winchester. But then, her own angel— _The_ angel of angels, he'd paved her way out of Hell. Dean had been saved for someone else's purpose, and so had she. The only difference was, she was embracing hers and he…well, he'd be dead before he ever had a chance to do the same.

"Aren't you useful," she snapped, giving the other body in the room a sweeping glance of disinterest.

She stepped out, losing herself in a corridor. Chances were the hunters were a bit too preoccupied with carrying off their surrogate daddy before he had a chance to bleed out to come out and take care of the bodies, but she could never be sure when one of their rare moments of intelligence might arrive to rain on her parade.

Granted, she somehow doubted they'd think she'd come back for the meatsuit. Despite Dean's time down under and Sam's _intimate_ knowledge of demons—"Dumbass," Meg muttered, rolling her eyes—they still knew so very little about possession. Though, these days, most _demons_ didn't seem to know much about possession—it was pathetic, really, what was being allowed to escape Hell. But she supposed not every little Hell spawn could claim a father figure like Azazel, who'd been just full of useful tidbits.

As if to reassure herself, she reached down, patting the charms that had fallen beneath her neckline. The sigils, all of them, were still where they needed to be, which was fortunate—it was a pain in the ass reforming them every time she lost a body.

This one, though, would stick. This girl…this girl had fit her like a _glove_. Usually demons didn't luck up on humans so broken that they'd beg to be taken over, beg to be completely numb, but occasionally it happened, and when it did, it gave the demon complete power over the soul inside. It was like having a portable battery pack, and the longer they stuck around, the more juice they could suck out at one time. Meg had even taken the time to properly thank her new host, mercilessly slaughtering the men who'd turned her into a sniveling sack of bones. And people said she wasn't charitable.

The original Meg Masters…well, Meg had just gotten that little package working at optimal speed when she'd been pulled from it via Winchester interference.

This time around, she'd strengthened her sigil carvings, making sure they'd serve all their purposes, shielding her from prying eyes, hiding her from summonings...Before Rocky and Bullwinkle had scrambled off to the hospital, they'd paused, looking for a pulse, and they'd determined the body dead—maybe she was. Meg never claimed to be gentle with her clothes. But, the necklace, still in place, made sure the shattered soul stayed inside, keeping the meatsuit warm for her return.

When she turned the corner, she realized she was back where she'd began, at the open door of the room she'd just fled, moments earlier. Meg paused, staring into it, until her eyes landed on the puddle of blood that had collected under the other demon. A ripple ran through the red.

_"Child."_

Meg knew her body was still running on all cylinders because she could feel its heart speed up with her excitement. The shock of that voice, of finally hearing it again, ran through her. The last time he'd spoken to her, she'd still been in Hell, biding her time, waiting for His release. Even as others left, even as Alastair left, she'd stayed, waiting for the cage to open, waiting to follow her Lord.

"Father," she answered. "Father, I had them—"

_"Child."_

She closed her mouth, swallowing hard. "Yes, Father."

_"Tonight I will walk among you on Earth. Gather your brothers and sisters. I have plans for the faithful."_

She smiled at the order, as if she'd been waiting years to hear it. And she had. "Yes, Father."

* * *

_"…I had always been a servant. A good servant. A believer. In life, I'd tried to serve your father—I loved your God, Clarence. I really did. And I thought, as such a good servant, I could face devils and be saved from their fire, that your father would protect me. I thought my power laid with God._

_"It broke me in half when Azazel finally approached me, told me the truth right before my end—those miracles of mine were not of God at all, but of him. Of his blood, in me. It was enough to rattle a girl's faith, being told she was an abomination._

_"Lucifer, though…Lucifer wasn't like your father at all. He came to me. He promised me what I'd always wanted. He promised me a path to Heaven, and I believed him, because he'd never forsaken me before, never left me to burn on a stake…_

_"Left me to burn in Hell, sure, but that was the past. I had complete faith in him once I saw his beauty, once he spoke to me._

_"And it's really your fault that changed. It was only a few months later, in Carthage, Missouri—oh, is that a sore subject for you? Because you lost a few of your little crusaders there? Bet I get the blame for that, right? I told those idiots to turn themselves over—surprise, surprise, they didn't heed my advice and other people ended up paying for it. It really doesn't pay to be friends with Winchesters, does it? But, that's not the real reason you just twitched, is it? Carthage is where you learned how truly screwed you were. Join the party."_

* * *

The town around them was dead, and Meg couldn't stop smiling.

It wasn't that she was fully enjoying the mayhem. No, even she wasn't a fan of destroying all in her path—the world was just more fun with the living around—but there was a sense of serenity to the absence of life.

These souls, all these souls lost—it wouldn't matter soon. When her father won, when he fulfilled his promise of Heaven, all would be equal. Demons, humans. Hell would be no more. Dead or living would simply be an insignificant detail.

They were all going to the same place in the end. And wasn't that just a beautiful thing?

"You seem pleased."

His deep voice stirred her from her thoughts, and she turned to stare past the ring of fire, where the angel stood at center. He looked so much like a man— _Christ_ , he looked like a damn accountant—not at all like the massive creature who'd left her dazed when had he torn Dean Winchester out of Hell. At the time, she'd been entranced by him, but now…Well, no angel compared to Lucifer.

"We're gonna win. Can you feel it?" Meg leaned back against the brick wall behind her. "You cloud-hopping pansies lost the whole damn universe. Lucifer's going to take over Heaven." Her grin widened into something genuine, something she hadn't worn in so long. "We're going to Heaven, Clarence."

The angel shot her a glance, a slight amusement in his eyes that she hadn't expected. He was mocking her with that gaze. "Strange, because I heard a different theory from a demon named Crowley."

As soon as the other demon's name left his lips, her mood soured completely. She straightened, stepping closer. Meg stared back at Castiel, eyes alight with anger, but she held it down—she'd known, of course, there were plenty of demons without masters, without a will to follow their father. Betrayers of the very one who'd given them their power. And, yes, _that_ son of a bitch's name was on her list. Had been even before Lucifer called her into service, though for other reasons.

"You don't know Crowley," she said, her voice quieter.

Castiel's expression didn't shift in the least. His eyes smiled, as if he were enjoying her reaction, and he stepped forward, closer to the edge of the ring. "He believes Lucifer is just using demons to achieve an end, and that, once he does, he'll destroy you all."

She didn't need to hear it.

"You're wrong," she bit, but she couldn't quite summon the joy she'd felt earlier. Lucifer had left her here, with this angel, to guard him. Had left her while he went to attend to the demons she'd summoned for him…so many, so many to possess the men of this small town and help bring about the Horseman. Because he'd had a use for them. He'd 'had use' for others, too, since she'd been out of Hell, and still she'd helped gather them.

She hadn't asked for more of an explanation when they didn't return. Obeying orders was what she did. If you were committed to your lord, you obeyed him.

But, something had been left behind in her, a nagging particle of doubt, when he'd told her she had to stay here.

"Lucifer is the father of our race," she continued, with conviction. "Our creator. Your father may be a deadbeat. Mine—mine walks the earth."

She wasn't even sure what had happened. Something slammed into her back, pushing her forward, through the circle. Meg didn't have time to pull back before the angel's arms wrapped around, holding her tight against his chest, and then he pressed his hand to her head.

She sucked in a breath, waiting for it.

Meg had been around so long, she'd just assumed that, if her end were to come, she'd have a moment to anticipate it, and that she'd never stop fighting to keep it from happening. But now that it had arrived, she froze, steeling herself for the flames she knew would engulf her essence.

They didn't come.

She swallowed, eyes still fixed on the angel holding her close, so she saw the hint of frustration in his expression and understood it immediately. He hadn't spared her—he'd had no choice in the matter.

"You can't gank demons, can you?" She huffed out a breathy laugh. Then she'd been right—he didn't just look the part, he really was more man than angel. Sad, really. Tilting her head up, she observed him with new interest."You're cut off from the home office, and you ain't got the juice." She gave him a slight, teasing smile. "So what can you do, you impotent sap?"

He leaned down, his face inches from hers, and she could feel the heat pooling in her body at the movement, at the dangerous expression in his eyes. The threat was enough to turn her on.

"I can do _this_ ," he said.

She was burning at her very core before she ever realized she'd been dumped onto the ring of fire. Thrown out to burn like so much trash. A stifled scream filled the room—it took her another moment to realize it was her own, forced out when the angel had stepped over her to get of the circle, pressing her back down into the flames. Meg raised her head, blinded by the pain, but she knew the angel, her charge, was already gone.

Her elbows dug into the floor, and she lifted herself high enough to roll off. None of the flames followed her. She was not engulfed. Her human body, her clothes were not even scorched by the heat, but she trembled, still feeling its licking touch eating away at her demonic essence.

She wasn't sure how long she lay, writhing on the floor, but she'd awoke to a new day, alone, and the fire was gone. Meg knew she should feign confusion, should be puzzled by her state, but she already knew the answer to the question any other person might have asked.

Castiel hadn't returned to finish her off, and if Lucifer had come back, he had decided she wasn't worth the trouble of collecting.

Meg pulled herself up off the floor, still quaking as she ran a hand under her shirt, over the smooth skin of her body. She could feel the burns beneath the pale flesh, even if they remained unseen. The holy fire had weakened her, leaving her barely strong enough to walk on two feet, but she knew power would return with time.

Just as she knew her father would not.

* * *

_"...A hell of a love tap you gave me, Castiel. I should hate you for that. For burning me. But, hey, that's war, right?_

_"You weren't lying that day. I never thought you were, but I did think you were wrong. I suppose that's one point I have to give to your deadbeat dad—at least he never lied to my face._

_"I really was a pathetic puddle of smoke after that, and not in an emotional woe-is-me sense. That holy fire knocked it right out of me. Even now, I can still feel it. The wounds haven't fully healed, but they're getting there. I'll be powerful again. But, maybe not as strong as I once was—you're always stronger when you have a cause to fight for. I knew that then, too._

_"So, I told myself my father couldn't use something so weak at his side, but that I could still be his loyal servant. I made it my mission to hunt Crowley down, and all the pathetic traitors like him. Even with Lucifer back in the cage, that duty stayed with me._

_"Of course, you can see how dedicated to that smarmy bastard's destruction I was if I was willing to work with you and the Hardy boys._

_"You just twitched again. Getting all sensitive in your comatose state, aren't ya, Clarence? Or were you just remembering our kiss._

_"You burned me once, back in Carthage, and you knew it. You burned me again the day you kissed me in Crowley's prison—holy beings, like yourself, they can burn the uncleanness right off a dirty girl like me…But it's a good kind of pain. The kind I like._

_"I think I've developed a bit of an angel kink since then._

_"What do you say, wings? Why don't you open those baby blues and set me on fire again?"_


	3. III. A Demon's Fate

_2013_

"…Why don't you open those baby blues and set me on fire again?"

The tease hung in the air a moment, filling the quiet void of the private room, before Meg sighed down at the still body on the bed. Castiel remained in place, ignoring her words, just as he usually did. Whatever was happening in that big angelic brain of his was obviously more interesting than her company.

This gig was really trying her patience. If she was back to her old self, if she had even a handful of her old allies…But she didn't. She had suicidal Wonder Twins with a hankering for Dick and a catatonic Superman who couldn't get it up if he wanted to.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen." She wasn't sure who she was referring to, but she hoped the angel took it personally. After all, she'd been roaming the earth during his brief escapade as the new God in town. Was hard to miss something like that.  
  
"I would have worshiped you," she confessed, quietly, and then grinned.

"I'll admit, I was a bit disappointed when I heard that you'd been working with Crowley. When I realized I'd been played as much as the Winchesters. Kudos on the manipulation. But you turning on the King? Now that I could appreciate, despite the outcome. You know, you could have looked me up during your reign."

Meg tilted her head to the side, following the line of dark shadows over the features of his face. By lamplight, it was hard to see his lashes fluttering in response.

"But you'd probably have just used me up, like all the rest, wouldn't you?" Her hand stayed on the angel's thigh, fingers tapping impatiently against the lukewarmth of the cotton scrubs over his muscles. "Or would you have appreciated a servant like me? Someone who'd kill for you. Someone who'd get on their knees for you…"

His kiss was fresh on her mind again, a sensation she couldn't quite be rid of, no matter how hard she tried: the burn stayed with her. It angered her that it was so fresh a memory, and she so prone to recollecting it, like some daydreaming schoolgirl remembering the first hand to slip under her skirt.

She paused her fingers, raising a brow in thought. It would be fun, running her hand up that leg, cupping the bulge in his pants and demanding he wake up, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well if it actually worked and the Winchesters found out about her 'tactics'. Sure, it was amusing to picture what their faces would look like, and heaven knew, 'Nurse Masters' had been forced to fake a sponge bath for her favorite 'patient' in order to keep up the belief that there was an actual human in this room, so she knew he wasn't exactly sensitive to her wandering touch, but…

"I'm hoping not to be _smote_ the moment you wake up," she muttered, back to being bored out of her mind. And it appeared she'd stay that way a bit longer—she pulled her hand away, leaning back into her chair once more.

"Well, Clarence, I think we're done with story time for the day. Probably a good thing, since I don't know how Act 3 of our little play ends." Needing a distraction from her thoughts, she pulled her MP3 player out of her top pocket, tapping in her ear buds and letting a hard beat fill her head. Then she picked up the magazine beside her chair, courtesy of the waiting room, and flipped it open, smirking at a glossy photo of a drunken pop star tripping out of a limo.

"Let's play a game of spot the celebrity Leviathan." She shot the angel a glance. "I'll start. Lohan? Nope. Big Mouths have better taste than demons. What about Selena Gomez?" She paused, waiting for an answer and receiving none. "Could be. I wouldn't trust anyone of those ex-Disney kids…"

Her voice drifted off as she settled in on an article about a new album release. She wouldn't admit it, on the rack or not, but it was oddly not as upsetting as she'd expected, being stuck in one place, playing the part of a human, spending her days on mindless deeds. Like paperwork and texting dirty jokes to the Winchesters—not that they ever replied, the dicks.

It was almost peaceful. _Boring_ , but peaceful. It was almost close to the afterlife she'd been promised.

But it wasn't to last. Couldn't. There was still work to be done.

Thunder rattled the windows, loud enough for her hear over Ozzy. Lightning lit the world outside, flashing bright enough to cast new shadows over the already darkened room. She glanced up, warily recollecting the evening news and its mention of clear skies. It took a moment for what she was seeing to sink in: Castiel was staring directly at her.

Not a few feet away, on the bed, sitting upright, the angel was watching her intensely.

She froze in place. "Uh. Hi."

He blinked, cocking his head. "Hello, Meg."

Slowly he reached out over the edge of the mattress tapping her magazine with one finger.

Meg was silent a moment longer, her eyes finally travelling down to the page again. "They ate Bradley Cooper?" She raised a brow at Castiel's curt nod. "The bastards."

His brow scrunched up in thought—which Meg was pleased to see. After hearing about what he'd sucked out of Sammy-boy's brain, she hadn't known if he was going to be able to form those again.

"I don't particularly like this game," he said, his voice gravelly. "Perhaps we can play something involving dice now. Or we can go outside."

Meg slowly stood up, pulling the phone from her pocket as she moved. "Sure, Clarence. We could do that. Or we could call one of your good buddies to come and play with you instead. How's that sound?"

Castiel seemed to consider it. "I do not understand your fascination with Clarence Odbody. I have very little in common with a fiction depiction of an Angel Second Class. Are you implying I have yet to earn my wings? Because that is not an actual practice."

She blinked, and he was gone. As was her phone. "Son of—"

"Also, it's raining outside now."

Meg spun on her feet, finding the angel standing behind her, his shirt peppered with damp spots. He cocked his head again, staring at her. "There's a library in the other ward. I read it," he said, his voice quick but level. "There was a book on arachnids. I've determined that you remind me of a spider. Generally aggressive with a tendency for manipulative hunting techniques. Did you know there are several species of arachnids that enjoy snuggling? Perhaps that's why you made such an efficient caretaker. It's unfortunate that you can't weave webs, though."

Meg opened her mouth, pausing to catch up with the spill. "Why do I get the feeling you didn't exactly wake up on the sane side of the bed?" She held out a hand. "My phone?"

"Later. First, I need to find where the board games are stored. Then we should apologize to the bees—there's really much to be done today."

"No kidding."

Castiel reached out, touching her arm gently before leaning into her. She froze, stiff with surprise as she felt his breath against her shoulder. "Thank you." The words brought a tingle to her skin, a slight burn, like too much sun on a hot day. "You stayed by my bed…my very own saint." He pulled away, staring down at her. "I owe you," he said, somewhat softer.

If she didn't know better, she would have thought he meant it.

* * *

 

It should have been easy, leaving them behind. She knew well enough when she was beaten—it was how she'd survived so long in the first place. And this fight the dumbasses were planning with the Big Mouths? It was suicide.

She'd already done more than her fair share. She'd babysat. She'd killed demons for them, and an angel—which, incidentally, _didn't_ help her get off their radar. She'd kindly _not_ stolen their tablet/prophet duo. All things considered, she'd been downright _nice_.

Escape had seemed like an easy answer. Run to the edge of the earth, hide out until the idiots killed themselves off, then show up to squash the survivors and take the throne from the King. Easy. But then, she'd never had an angel shadowing her before. She'd never had someone who asked her to stay.

Granted she'd said no, but here she was anyhow. Waiting to take part in another battle that promised an unhappy ending and didn't help her get any closer to taking down Crowley.

"How the hell do I get myself into these messes?"

Meg didn't receive an answer aside from the purr of the Impala as it rolled onto the gravel leading up to the abandoned gas station. She crossed her arms over her chest, acting as if she'd been waiting far longer than a few minutes for the others to show. She'd expected there to be a passenger in the car, but only Dean's face stared up at her through the windshield. He parked, leaving the motor running, and stepped out.

"This is a stupid plan," she noted, before he could close the door behind him.

"It's what we've got," he bit back. His jaw tensed, rolling slightly as he snapped his mouth closed, and Meg recognized the expression. It wasn't just annoyance in his dark eyes. Or anticipation. He was holding something back. "And you volunteered."

She smirked, pretending not to notice his mood. "Oh, I didn't say it _wouldn't_ work. Just that it was stupid—which fits, considering who we're going after. Where's our angel?"

Dean's frown deepened, if that was even possible. "Saying goodbye to daffodils or some shit. He's supposed to pick me up here so we can go get Sam and the supplies. He won't run off this time."

"No, I guess not. Instead, he's off preparing for his inevitable demise." Meg huffed out a laugh, but her eyes were lit with quiet anger. "Lovely."

Dean gave the car a forlorn glance, ignoring her comment. "I swear, if you hurt her—"

Meg rolled her eyes, then stretched her lips into a smile. "Won't get a scratch on 'her,'" she promised, tracing a line across her chest with one finger. "Cross my little black heart."

She slipped past him, putting her back to the hunter and opening the door wide again. Dean's feet shifted behind her, catching her attention, and she hesitated, waiting for him to make a move.

"Jehanne."

Meg stiffened, then glanced over her shoulder, seeing him, just a few feet away. "So, cat's out of the bag then. How long have you known?"

He didn't answer, that hard glare he'd perfected long ago twinkling in his eye. Meg didn't think it was directed entirely at her. No, Dean Winchester hated himself too much to ever put his focus entirely on a mere demon anymore. One second, she was considering how best to rub what she knew in his face, the next she was slammed against the passenger's door, Dean holding that damned blade she hated so much tight against her neck.

She grimaced, then forced out a laugh. "You sent Cas away for a few minutes, hoping to get this out of the way before he could stop you," she guessed. He remained in place, throat bouncing as he swallowed. "So much for honesty. Well? Your move, pretty boy. What'cha gonna do with that pig-sticker?"

"I've known for a while," he finally said, his voice barely more than a growl, but she could understand him well enough. He was so close that she could practically feel the words vibrating against her. "You didn't say anything. This whole time…you didn't say a damn thing."

"Neither did you," she pointed out. "What happens in Hell stays in—well, I guess that's not _exactly_ true, is it?"

Dean pressed the blade down harder, still not quite breaking skin. He looked lost in his thoughts, eyes darting over her face, looking for features Meg couldn't remember and he obviously couldn't get out of his head.

When his voice returned, it was weighted, so heavy it barely made it out between those pouty lips of his. "The things you did to me..."

"The things you did to _me_ ," she echoed back, before he could continue. "Not that I'm complaining."

Her eyes brightened, and she slowly reached out, sliding a hand down his chest, despite the threat at her neck. He didn't move to stop her as her fingers reached his belt. "I think you paid me back in the pit, don't you, Dean? At least for the things you didn't like me doing." She tugged at the leather, her grin open, pleased, when it gave, letting her find the zipper beneath. "Or is this about the things you _did_ like?"

"Don't—"

She curled her fingers away from the denim. Stopping wasn't something she would have done in Hell. But there were rules topside—not that she usually heeded them—and they were going to battle soon. She couldn't break him if she wanted to win.

"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here, Dean-o? A little pre-fight-to-the-death coitus, or are you just looking for a chance to spill a bit of that famous Winchester angst? Because we both know you're not going to kill me. Not when there are other things you want to kill so much more…Not when your BFF Cas wants me alive."

He pulled the blade away, stepping back, out of her grasp. His loosened belt flopped against his jeans, unattended and drawing her eyes, but his expression was blank, only a hint of darkness in his gaze. And it wasn't lust.

"I just—" He broke off, shaking his head, taking in a shallow breath. "Why didn't you tell me down there? Why didn't you tell me after…after you'd won? You gloat. It's what you do. Or were you just waiting for the right time to rub salt in the wound?"

"Salt in the wound—you know, that's the exact thing I thought when I heard you were taking the big trip down under...I didn't tell you because I didn't. Win, that is," she answered and slid into the open door of the Impala.

Dean didn't move to stop her, but she rolled down the window. He looked like some abandoned dog on the side of the road, his big wet eyes staring out accusingly. "I broke," he said, as if it were a confession. "I broke. Alastair won. You won."

Meg chuckled at his somber tone, but she could feel something building in her head, itching to get loose. Felt a hell of a lot like guilt, but she wasn't going to deceive to herself on that front—that couldn't be right. She wasn't the type to feel those things, not anymore. "I didn't lie to you, Dean, when I told you those souls deserved to be on your rack. You can hold on to that shame of yours, keep it with you for all these years, but if you ask me, you did nothing wrong. I'm sure Alastair tried rub it in your face, but he was just trying to get you worked up—maybe he was a bit jealous too. But like knows like, and you're a soldier. Sometimes soldiers get their hands bloody. That's all."

Dean was silent a moment, staring down at the blade in his hand until he finally slipped it back inside his jacket. "Jehanne," he said, then swallowed the name back down. " _Meg_. Whoever the hell you are—"

"Just shut up." Meg snorted, amused. "This is the part where you let go with some lofty speech along the lines of 'after this, we're back to being enemies'. And maybe you'll tack on some bit about staying away from your boyfriend. You can save it, Winchester. I know the score."

Dean raised a brow. "Actually, I was just going to threaten to send you back to Hell in a paper sack if you wreck my baby."

Meg shrugged, biting down a fresh grin as she considered her 'surprise arrival' for the Leviathans. "Same thing in Winchester-speak. Oh, and, if I _do_ go back to Hell thanks to your ingenious little plan here, you're going with me—wouldn't be the same down there without my old bunk-buddy."

She put the car into drive, hitting the gas while he was still cursing her. It should have been pleasure driving the smile on her face, but it was a mockery of itself. Dean remembering was supposed to be a moment, a final moment. The one before the big climax, when he realized he'd been fucked by her, literally. She was supposed to feel nothing but glee as he relived all those games they played together in Hell.

But the knowledge just left her itching to get out of her skin instead.

Over the past few years, riding around in this meatsuit, going by this name, she'd become a solid entity, not a shifting creature of smoke. Something about it had made her feel real. Like a person again.

And now Dean had pointed out the elephant in the Impala, that she was someone else entirely, no matter what she was known as. Great.

"You appear distressed."

Meg jumped, surprised by the voice, and cut the steering wheel, sliding the car into the other lane before she gained control and pulled off the side of the road. Castiel sat in the seat beside her, glancing at her profile as if she were some odd curiosity.

"Is it because we're due to lay siege upon the Leviathan within the hour?"

She shook her head, annoyed, and put the car in park. "You missed your pet hunter—he's at the gas station a few miles back. Waiting for you, you feathered taxi."

Castiel stayed put. "Yes. He is. But I wished to speak with you first."

"Oh? Do the bees want you to deliver a message?"

Castiel frowned, turning to look out the front windshield, as if offended. "I know that was sarcasm. You have no real interest in the hive."

Meg shook her head. The angel was moody today, to say the least. Maybe knowing you were headed to your doom did that to a guy. "Got me," she admitted.

He nodded, obviously satisfied with the answer, then grew still again. "I heard you. Your confession."

Meg raised a brow. "I'd hardly call claiming my name as my own a conf—" She broke off. "You mean at the hospital…Huh. Guess someone _was_ paying attention in class. Learn anything new?"

"No," he replied, sounding sad. "Nothing new."

Meg waited for more, but he remained silent, staring off into the nothing. She rolled her eyes. "So you're upset with me now? Had a momentarily lap in insanity and suddenly realized that your new gal-pal is the same woman who tortured your favorite human all those years? Guess that matters to you again, now that you're running off toward death trying to get his forgiveness."

He reached out, touching her shoulder. Meg felt herself being pulled away. The world changed, and suddenly she wasn't inside the Impala any longer but sitting atop it, the sheet of metal under her popping as she curled her legs up before they fell over the side. The open road beside them was rural, deserted, which was probably a good thing, since humans tended to find people teleporting on top of classic cars odd.

"Guess we're back to crazy-Cas, then. Don't you think you're wasting those frequent flyer m—?"

Her back slammed against the metal, and she realized he was still grasping her shoulder, holding her down. Meg blinked, dazed for a moment as her head hung off the back of the roof, dark hair spilling down the window beneath. Her world had turned upside down. Before she could pull herself up, she felt a hand press down between her breasts, holding her in place.

With a groan, she lifted her head, finding eyes as bright as the blue sky behind them staring at her. Into her. His expression was sober instead of distant, and she could have mistaken it for anger.

"What? You don't like me anymore?" she sneered.

He licked his dry lips. "I owe you, as I said before, and I may not have another chance to repay that debt. So, I'm going to give you what you requested of me. The fire you crave."

Meg could taste her pulse on her tongue as he lowered himself down closer, laying against her side. She choked the words out, before they could be swallowed again, "Do it."

The warm breath passing between them in those inches of space was a tease because his lips didn't move to press against her, not like she'd expected. At first, she'd thought he was hesitating, but then she felt the hand at her chest slide down to her belt. There wasn't going to be a kiss—that wasn't what he was giving her.

"Do you even know how to—"

She forgot the sentence when his grip ripped her pants down to her hips, leaving her bare to the world. Naked to the daylight instead of the darkness she was used to. She trembled, feeling the chill off the metal, or, at least, that was what she told herself. As much as she wanted to raise her head, see exactly what his hand was doing, his eyes kept her trapped in place.

But she could certainly still _feel_ what he was doing.

Rough fingers slid along her part, hesitantly caressing her until they found slickness on those barren lips. Meg knew it shouldn't have came as a surprise when two of his fingers suddenly slid into her without warning, but her body bucked anyhow, clenching around him.

Castiel's face remained impassive. Watching. Waiting.

"It will hurt."

Meg wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a warning or an enticement. "It better," she grunted, already wiggling her ass, trying to get him to move. Then he did, working his fingers into her, his thumb snagging her clit as he moved, the sleeve of his coat tickling her inner thigh.

The heat felt just like it should. All warm and encompassing and _not_ what she needed, but that changed as he began to move faster.

A flicker…

There it was—the fire. _Holy_. Mighty. Swallowing her whole. But oh-so different from the oil that Castiel had thrown her on to. Not, this was far more like his kiss.  
  
As soon as it arrived, it overtook her. Her body was flushed with it, but the flames didn't show—they couldn't be seen by humans or demons. They couldn't harm flesh. No, these only touched souls, and hers was an impure thing, and they consumed it, greedily.

Meg writhed when his fingers suddenly disappeared, but the fire had no time to dim. Faster than she could follow, he was on top of her. She couldn't see him, but she could imagine what that uniform—those cotton scrubs she'd stared at for weeks—must have looked like bunched at his hips, his vessel's swollen cock lining up with her. And every image in her head was wiped when she felt him push in with one fast thrust.

The fire _burned_.

She threw back her head, screaming against the sudden onslaught and writhing as he continued to force himself deeper. She could almost feel his grace, filling her, pushing her out of the body. Agony: this was agony, and it was wonderful.

Her muscles tightened around him, and she came with his name on her lips, still shaking, long after he pulled out of her, leaving her cold again.

"All of that thorny pain," he whispered. "Beautiful."

He was gone before she recovered, leaving her on the side of the road, alone atop the Impala. She crawled off on numb legs, finding her seat inside once more. The flames had burned. Had left her weak, too, but not in the ways that would matter in the battle to come; as she well knew, a demon with a cause was always stronger than the rest.

* * *

 

Back on the rack again:

Where she belonged. The thought brought a wet chuckle from her lips. It spilled out, coating her tongue in blood when it turned into a cough. She'd always been told she'd be back on it again, but for a moment, she'd been foolish enough to think that nagging voice in her head was wrong. That she'd escaped it forever.

She wasn't in Hell. That much she knew. Hell she had escaped from so many times that it would have been considered a cake-walk instead of a prison sentence. No, she was on Earth still, in some man-made pit of steam and grease and rust. And, she'd been here long enough to gather that the prophet was nearby, captured again.

Out of habit, she tugged on the restraints holding her body down against the skeletal metal rack beneath her, but they didn't give more than a groan.

"Good. You're awake," a voice said, drawing her attention. Her eyes tracked the shadow moving to her side until the demon came into view again, a familiar sight with his well-tailored suit and well-sharpened knife. "So glad to see you with us again. We've some catching up to do."

Crowley's grin should have turned her stomach, but she couldn't help but mirror it.

"Here?" Meg asked, feigning confusion. "Where your tools are so...limited? Why—don't tell me the King of Hell is having trouble pulling one little demon back down into the pit."

His face darkened, his smile suddenly bitter. "Oh, don't worry, Jehanne—I'll figure out how you've grounded yourself here soon enough. What did you do? Cook up a few more of those silly sigils, like the ones on your necklace?"

Her eyes hardened. "Meg," she corrected. "The name's Meg now."

Crowley chuckled. "Yes. I forgot. _Meg._ " He bent down, eyes level on hers. "Well, Meg. We'll get you back home and in your own private corner of Hell in no time. I'm cooking up something special just for your return…A few centuries with Alastair's replacement should put you back on track, don't you think? Having you kiss my ring will be so much more satisfying than simply killing you."

Meg only grinned back, her teeth stained red with blood. "Not gonna happen."

Mostly because she wouldn't be going to Hell, not any time soon. Demons talked. Especially dim-witted demons left to guard the boss's leftovers. So, she already knew where her purpose could be found, where her cause remained, and it wasn't in Hell. Or Heaven, or Earth, for that matter. But she'd find it again. Soon.

"We'll see," Crowley said. "Until then—" He held the blade up. "Let's have a bit of fun. For old times' sake."


End file.
